


Christmas On The Ridge

by futurelounging, IanMuyrray, theministerskat, WhiskyNotTea, wunderlichkind



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Fraser’s Ridge, Gen, other outlander tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futurelounging/pseuds/futurelounging, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theministerskat/pseuds/theministerskat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyNotTea/pseuds/WhiskyNotTea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderlichkind/pseuds/wunderlichkind
Summary: December 25, 1779 - A collection of moments from Christmas celebrations on Fraser’s Ridge.





	Christmas On The Ridge

**Author's Note:**

> The writers at Other Outlander Tales would like to wish each and every one of you a very happy holiday! In celebration, we have put together a series of moments during a Christmas celebration on the Ridge.

**William by@futurelounging**

William Ransom, ninth earl of Ellesmere, kicked the warped bottom of the outhouse door which stubbornly refused to stay closed, briefly smiling to himself at a memory of his first visit to Fraser’s Ridge many year ago. Heading back down the trail, he pulled the lapels of his coat up against his ears, already stinging from the sharp winter wind swirling through the clearing behind the Frasers’ house. His father’s house. He had been trying it in his head lately, thinking of Fraser as his father, strange as it was to be adding yet another father to his collection. **  
**

The house’s lights poured from the windows, reaching halfway down the path to the outhouse and he stopped just before it, keeping himself in shadow. Through the windows he saw the blur of warm life. Mother Claire stood in the corner of the room, her fingers trailing through Mandy’s hair as she clung to Claire’s skirts. Fanny clapping, her head thrown back in laughter. Her life had been cast away by the world, but now, impossibly, it was infused with joy. He felt a pang, a sudden certainty of what it was to be treasured, and a hollow spot in the middle of his chest ached where Jane resided.

His feet began to burn with the cold and he trudged through the drifting snow back to the house. Once inside, he was nearly knocked over with the warmth and chatter of the people. His people. His family. As he kicked the snow from his boots, he considered, not for the first time, what it might have been like if he’d grown up here with them, emulating Fraser as he had long ago.

Claire’s warm hand wrapped around his arm and she tugged, smiling. “Come closer to the fire. I can hear your teeth chattering.”

He followed her and took the small wooden stool she offered him. Mandy still clung to Claire and pulled on her hand, gesturing to indicate she wanted Claire to bend down so she might whisper something to her. He couldn’t hear what Mandy said, but Claire smiled and nodded. Mandy let go of Claire and scurried to the counter, returning a moment later with a small slice of carrot cake wrapped in a cloth. She held it out to William, eyes cast to the floor.

“Mandy…” Claire encouraged.

“Would you like a cake, Uncle William?” Mandy asked, her smile growing with each word.

This family, these ties had felt abstract to him when he first learned of his true parentage. He hadn’t truly envisioned the branches of his family tree spreading to encompass even this young girl. He was not merely a man forging his way in the new world. He was not only a son, but a brother, a nephew, an uncle. And family, here in this place, was not about lineage or wealth, but trust. It was appearing on a doorstep and knowing he’d be offered food and shelter. His name, his title meant nothing here. But Fraser’s name, Fraser’s stature as a man of his word, now extended to William.

William took the cake from Mandy, smiling and bowing his head. “Thank you, dear niece.”

She giggled and smiled up at Claire, glowing with pride. Claire patted her curly head and Mandy took her cue, skipping over to her mother and crawling into her lap while Brianna began to rock her side to side, the soothing instinct forever triggered by a child’s appearance in a mother’s arms.

“I was wondering, William.” Claire’s voice was low compared to the exuberant chatter around them. “Did you have any special traditions for Christmas when you were growing up?”

“Well, I don’t know. What do you mean?” he asked, stalling for time as much as he was curious what she might be hoping to hear.

“Oh, I guess special songs to sing or stories or treats. When Brianna was small, we read a special story together.” Claire’s eyes remained fixed on Brianna and Mandy as she spoke, a wistful smile curling her lips.

William furrowed his brow and hummed, a barely perceptible sound that he would some day discover was exactly the sound Jamie made when contemplating something. “Well, my mother, Isobel, had a very fine voice.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, quite. My father would implore her to sing often and she would refuse him out of shyness, but on the eve before Christmas, she would indulge in perhaps a bit more wine than usual and he did confess to me a few years ago that he took advantage of her less guarded nature at these times to cajole songs from her.” William bit back a well of emotion at the memory of his mother, her loss suddenly looming in this room bursting with love.

“Did you have a favorite song?”

“Hm. Yes. I always quite liked ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’. I enjoyed the rhythm of it as a child. And when she sang ‘tidings of comfort and joy’, she always looked right at me, as if she was singing only for me.” His voice trailed off, lost in the memory.

“You were her comfort and joy.” Claire rested her hand on his shoulder and he covered it with his own, squeezing gently.

“Perhaps. Tell me, what traditions do you have here?”

Claire looked around the room slowly, taking in the faces of their family, flushed with drink and warmth, then looked down at William. “This. To have you all here in our home. That is all we’ve ever wanted.”

Her eyes were shining when William looked up at her. “I should like that as well.”

* * *

 

**Jenny by @ianmuyrray**

“Grannie Janet,” came Germain’s voice. He tugged on her elbow, trying to pull it out of the dough she was kneading. “We need your help.” **  
**

Jenny was in the kitchen, helping Claire and Marsali prepare Christmas supper. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked over at him. He was tall, not quite grown into all the angles of manhood yet, his face bearing the handsome lines of his father and the rounded softness of his mother. A bit of jam was smeared from the corner of his mouth to his cheek. Jenny barely held back a smile. “What is it, _mo chridhe_?”

“Joanie was running and caught her skirt on the corner of a bench. She tore it. Can you fix it, _s’il vous plait_?”

“Why, yes I can. Grab a needle and thread from the basket, will ye?” The young man nodded and scampered away as Jenny exchanged a chuckle with Claire. “I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving a trail of swishing skirts in her wake.

The room everyone had gathered in was large and cozy, orange glow from candles and fire offset but the whiteness of the snow and winter sun outside. The air smelled of balsam and fir thanks to the garlands Brianna and Claire had made for the occasion. An evergreen tree stood in the corner, strung with yarn and stuffed cloth ornaments. Claire had fashioned a bow for the top, and the red ribbon cascaded down the branches.

“Joanie, _a leannan_ , what happened?” Jenny knelt beside the lass on the floorboard by the fire, who was holding the waistline of her dress. Jenny was already reaching to inspect the tear.

“I fell. I was playing with Mandy, and then _Jem_ \--.”

“Ye fell?” Jenny repeated, surprised. “Are ye hurt?”

“Yes--!”

“--Joan!” Jem stood over his aunt, his feet planted firmly and blue gaze fierce upon his cousin. “Yer _fiiiiiine_. Stop whining.” With an experienced eye, Jenny assessed her granddaughter and nodded in agreement with Jem.

“Well if you _wouldn’t_ have thrown my doll I _wouldn’t_ have run. Look at my knee!” Joan’s lip quivered. “She’s not a game.” ‘She,’ Jenny knew, was Joan’s wee bear.

“You were laughing, Joanie, why are ye crying now? Stop it.”

“Hi Grannie,” Jenny felt a small hand on her shoulder, touching her gently. “What are you doing?” It was Félicité.

“I’m going to fix yer sister’s dress, dear heart. She tore it,” Jenny said, firmly settling Joan before pinching the fabric of the tear together. A seam had ripped. “Don’t move.” Germain appeared with the house sewing basket, and Jenny threaded the needle in the light of the fire, aided by a flood of natural light as William came back inside.

Mandy wandered over to the group, never far from her brother and cousins, and placed a hand on Jenny for balance. She pointed at the needle, which Jenny used to create deft, neat stitches. “You sew?”

“Mm hm. Careful now, don’t touch.” Jenny batted the child’s clumsy hand away to judge the patchwork. “There.” She gave Joan a pat on the back. “All set, _a leannan_ , ye may return to yer game.”

The children, their argument forgotten, moved on to other amusements. Jenny caught a glimpse of Ian and Rachel, their own child, too young for play with the big kids, swaddled in Rachel’s arms. She saw Germain had made his way over to sit with Fergus; Marsali cradling her young baby. And Jamie, grinning at Claire and his own grandchildren.

_We did well, didn’t we?_

A voice, one she knew too well. She wanted to reach for him, to pin him to the earth and keep him here with her. Or follow him. A deep bell rang hollow in her chest, like a distant call, too far off to respond to.

Jenny felt a light touch on her wrist, a touch of love and unhurried patience. “Hm. Yes, I think we did.” She spoke quietly, briefly running a hand over her heart before walking over to her son.

* * *

 

**Ian by @whiskynottea**

Ian stood next to Rachel, little Oggy - _still_ Oggy - finally asleep in her arms. Insatiable, he was. _Much like his Da_ , Ian thought with a grin. **  
**

He’d promised his mam that they would decide on the name after Hogmanay. This was when the Mohawks proceeded to the name confirmation. Maybe the spirits would help him and Rachel decide between her ‘Fox’ and his ‘Wolf’. Or bless them with another name. Or maybe Mother Mary would.

The door opened and cold air rushed inside. William entered the house and Ian felt every joint of his spine straightening. He saw William’s eyes lingering on Rachel just a moment and let out a careful, silent sigh. His wife’s hand squeezed his thigh gently, and he relaxed again.

His wife. His little miracle. Every day that he woke up next to her, he found her more beautiful than the night before. Even when Oggy had stolen every little bit of sleep from her, his lass was shining.

“Ye missed many Christmas celebrations when ye were with the Mohawk, _a bhalaich_.” It wasn’t a question. His mother’s voice was soft, and Ian realized that lost as he was in his thoughts, he hadn’t felt her looking at him.

“Oh, aye. But we…” he paused. “They have the Midwinter celebrations.”

“Care to share?” Bree winked at him, opening her arms wide for Mandy, who was rushing over to her mother’s embrace.

He nodded with a smile. A silent thanks to his cousin, for lightening the mood. “My favorite was the fifth day, Oheho:ron. It’s the day the song and dance starts - they use the water drum, aye?” That drew Roger Mac’s attention. History, traditions, music - they always spoke to him. Ian hid his smiled and continued. “A spiritual history about the beginning of the world and the people was recited. It was their way of giving thanks. And it felt... right. Proper.” Ian finished with a slight shrug and noticed that the room had fallen silent. His time with the Mohawk was painted black for them - when they’d lost him. But for Ian, it had never taken just one colour. It was the colours of the woods, and the fires, of the soil, and Emily’s eyes.

“Were the women dancing naked?” Germain asked, breaking the uneasy silence.

The whole room at once erupted in laughter.

“I’m sorry to disappoint ye, lad,” Ian said, thankful for the lad’s mischievous mind. The laughter lingered in his voice when he continued. “But… no.”

It was when he’d finished his sentence that his heart shrunk a bit in his chest. The Mohawk women, he thought, and his eyes searched for Rachel’s. He didn’t want her to think his life wasn’t enough as it was. That he kept thinking of his time with Emily. But Rachel was laughing, too. She was looking at him with their son in her lap, and she was laughing. Happy.

_Thee is my wolf_ , she’d said, and meant it. She had accepted every little piece of him. Every bent, broken, stray piece that made him who he was. His brave lass. His family.

Ian’s eyes trailed from her to their son and he ran two callused fingers against Oggy’s smooth cheek. Then, his gaze danced to the people around him, perched on the couch, the armchairs, the stools dispersed in the room. Every little nook was taken. His big, beautiful family.

At that moment, Ian would swear he heard his father’s voice behind his shoulder. Barely a whisper, almost inaudible.

_Take care of her for me, aye lad?_

He turned his head and found his mother looking him straight in the eye. And then she gave him a genuine, easy smile. As if she had heard his da, too. As if she knew. Ian breathed in and saw her chest heaving in sync with his.

_Thank ye, son._

The smooth whisper caressed his ear and flew across the room, straight to her. A moment later, it was lost between the fire’s crackling noise and his family’s laughter.

* * *

 

**Fergus by @wunderlichkind**

It had gotten dark outside, the black window squares illuminated only by the faint reflection of the house’s fires and candles in the snow, and for the first time in a long time, Fergus felt at peace. **  
**

His gaze was trained on Marsali and the bairn, sitting by the fire with Brianna, engaged in animated conversation. He felt himself mirror her smile, a surge of tenderness and gratitude running through him. They had lived through long, hard years. Now, the weight was lifting. Finally, little by little.

“ _Miracle de Noël_ ,” he murmured under his breath, fingers of his good hand absentmindedly bunching up the fabric of his pants with the force of his emotions.

“What is, Papa?”

Germain plopped down onto the bench beside him, making the sturdy wood creak, and Fergus was struck by how big his eldest son had grown, how many of his features were already morphing from boy to man. Germain’s hands were full of cake and biscuits, though, a small smear of jam in the left crook of his mouth, his eyes sparkling with youthful energy, and Fergus grinned, reaching out a thumb to wipe away the jam, unfazed by his son’s embarrassed squirming.

“I was just thinking how happy your mother looked,” Fergus answered his son’s question, cautiously licking the jam from his finger.

“Mmh, aye.” Germain’s answer sounded so contemplative that it drew Fergus’ gaze from his wife back to his son, who’s expression had changed considerably.

“What is it, _mon fils_?” he asked softly, reaching out again, this time to squeeze Germain’s shoulder.

“Remember how Henri-Christian would sing _Joy To The World_ at the top of his lungs? How Mam and the lasses would dance and giggle?” Germain’s eyes shone with complex emotion; love and grief and regret, and yes, there was even the hint of nostalgia, marking him an old soul. Fergus took a deep breath, his own feelings battling with his thoughts for a moment. His first son had somehow grown up without him noticing, had dealt with his fair share of tragedy and heartbreak, and grown into the young man sitting beside him, accompanied by the memories resting on his back.

Fergus squeezed Germain’s shoulder again, smiling. 

“ _Oui_ , I remember,” he said, running his hand down Germain’s back in an attempt to brush off some of the weight of the past. “It’s a good memory,” he continued. “None of us could get the song out of our heads for days, and the whole house was filled with music.”

“Aye, I remember that too.” Germain smiled, the muscles of his back relaxing a little under his father’s touch.

“What’s important to remember, Germain, is that we carry our family with us, no matter what happens. We’re lucky to be surrounded by so many of them today, but do not believe for one second that those who can not be here with us have left us. He’ll always be with you, _j’suis sûr_.”

“Singin _Joy To The World_ into my ear,” Germain joked in a feeble attempt to mask his emotion, pressing his eyes closed to hide the mist that had gathered in them. Fergus chuckled, its vibration traveling into Germain through his hand, joining them in a moment of quiet laughter.

“Ah, _oui_ , that sounds like him, doesn’t it?”

* * *

 

**Brianna by @theministerskat**

Mandy had fallen asleep in Bree’s arms. Dark, tight curls spilled down across her back, and her small head was nestled in the crook of her mother’s shoulder. Brianna felt a surge of emotion wash over her as she stared down at her daughter, studying every minute detail of her face. The chubby, round baby cheeks were quickly giving way to the distinct intricacies that would define her well into adulthood. It was with a sense of remorse that Brianna realized just how fast time was passing in relation to her children. **  
**

She remembered Mandy’s first Christmas, a memory that felt like a lifetime ago. Their journey through the stones had only been several weeks before and Brianna had longed to be home then. Home on the Ridge, with her mother and father, and all of the tenants who had become family, engulfed in the warmth of holiday cheer and celebrations.

Instead, she, Roger, and Jem had spent it in a sterile room of Boston’s Children Hospital with Mandy, the doctors and nurses preparing her for the first of several surgeries to correct the abnormality in her heart. Brianna’s heart clenched at the image of Mandy that appeared in her mind, small for her age and lips tinged slightly blue, sleeping in a rigid hospital crib, monitors beeping rhythmically around her.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump, pulling her back into the present.

“Give her to me, _a leannan_ ,” her father said reaching his arms out towards his granddaughter, “I’ll go put her down.” Brianna nodded in response, loosening the tight hold she hadn’t realized she had on her daughter, and Jamie gently lifted Mandy into his arms.

She glanced around the room and realized that the crowd in the parlor had begun to thin. Many of the children had been put to bed, and those who weren’t staying in the big house had gone home to their own cabins. Brianna caught the faint sound of Roger casually strumming the strings of his new guitar from across the room from where she sat. She had gifted him with the instrument that morning, having sent word to Marsali and Fergus in Savannah a few months before to have one made for him in time for Christmas.

Brianna felt her heart flutter at the sight of him, cheeks flushed from whisky and the warmth of the room, small wisps of hair had escaped his plait and fell across his brow, and a look of absolute joy on his face as his fingers moved over the strings. She could tell Roger felt her gaze on him and he looked up, searching for her. When his gaze finally landed on his wife, he gave her a sly smile that reached his eyes. Though she couldn’t hear them, she watched as his lips moved and formed the words, for you, and he bent intently over the guitar.

She recognized the song even without the lyrics, a slower rendition of Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” A song for just the two of them, one that held so much more meaning now after all that they had been through. She knew no one else would know it, except perhaps-

“Fitting, isn’t it?” Her mother’s voice was low and soft as she placed a hand on Brianna’s shoulder.

“It isn’t a dream though, is it?” she asked, pulling her eyes away from Roger to look up at her mother. She saw a look of contentment on her Claire’s face then, one she knew was reflected on her own.

“It feels like one. But no, it isn’t a dream. Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Merry Christmas, Mama.”


End file.
